You stink. Yes: you. Really - the fetid crevices of your reeking body discharge a sour, eye-burning cloud without end, while stepping into your house is like nothing so much as opening a wheelie bin at the hazy height of summer. I know this because everywhere and repeatedly I observe the clues that reveal your efforts to conceal the choking fug you generate. Only a moment ago, I saw an air freshener advertised; one that automatically, tirelessly, sends out scented puffs in an attempt to mask the rankness of your home. It has three interval settings. The longest of them - the risky limit of any pause between chemical intervention - is 36 minutes. Ugh. What do you have in your living room? A row of public urinals? Thank heavens the freshener not only has a safer nine-minute mode but also a "manual boost" button, you revoltingly noisome sack of fish sick.

Then, right after this dead giveaway that you live in filth, a woman came on screen explaining how the device she used didn't simply shave under her arms but did so far more rigorously than previous devices, thereby helping guard against what it seems is her incessant battle with vile and shameful odours. Now, I don't shave under my arms at all, and I'm fine: stench-free; fawns and songbirds seek to nestle happily in my armpits. Presumably, therefore, shaving signals this: "I prefer not to wash." And scented toilet paper? At what point, eh? I'm anxious and repulsed.